


i see you circling the sky above my head

by transzoemurphy



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Abusive Parents, Autistic Jared, GUYS, Lowercase, Meltdown, Self Harm, dont abuse ur children, graphic descriptions of self harm, how do u know if ur on the autism spectrum? asking for a friend, i had a fun night thanks for asking, i want to be dead, im having a hashtag crisis, meltdowns, pls, shit dude, take care of urselves, this is common sense you assholes, ‘are u ok’ NO !!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-01
Packaged: 2019-12-30 15:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18317972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transzoemurphy/pseuds/transzoemurphy
Summary: this is deadass just a vent fic :/





	i see you circling the sky above my head

**Author's Note:**

> tw for self harm  
> pls take care of urself.,.,.

“i don’t understand.”

jared’s dad, abraham, sighed, his irritation visible. “discipline and aggression are different.”

“but you shouldn’t hit a child. you should tell them why they can’t do what they did,” jared said. he was rocking back and forth fairly violently, a hoodie string in his mouth.

“some children don’t learn like that.”

“but that doesn’t mean you should hit them!” jared took a drink of his soda. he was growing more upset by the second and he didn’t know what to do.

“it’s not hitting, it’s discipline,” his dad responded.

“but if i murder someone, that’s not discipline?”

“you’re not being logical.”

“i don’t understand why it’s not bad!”

“because it’s a teaching moment!”

“but you can teach without hitting children!”

“sometimes you can’t!”

jared gnawed on his hoodie string and stopped rocking. “this conversation is upsetting to me,” he said, his voice shaking. “i’m going to leave now.”

the second he was out of eyesight he bolted up to his room and deadbolted his door before throwing himself into his closet, where he’d placed a dungeon of sorts made of entirely pillows and began sobbing his fucking eyes out.

he was still rocking back and forth, and tears streamed down his face, and the only reason he realised he was hitting himself in the head was because he had to bring his hands down for a moment to wipe the tears away.

he wanted to calm down but he couldn't and he found himself realising that maybe this was how connor felt sometimes, but with anger rather than fear and confusion.

he cried silently -- he'd always done that, it was just more obvious when he was alone -- and he kept hitting himself, hoping that maybe he would pass out. maybe he'd finally fucking die and be done with all this.

the last time he'd cut he'd been fourteen. he remembered that day, it was after a wonderful day he'd spent with evan. he'd gone for dinner with his family at some mexican place and had a huge panic attack for no real reason. when he got home, he'd gone up to his room and retrieved the blade from where he kept it, taped underneath a postit note in his closet.

he reached up, wiping his face with his free hand, and felt around for the postit note. it only took him a second to find -- he'd done this many times before. he'd spent the better part of a good two years bleeding in his closet.

and no one had known except for evan, which kind of sucked because he used to think he had friends who cared, even when his parents didn't.

he dropped his hand and wrapped his arms around his knees, sobbing silently into his arms. he was still rocking back and forth, but it wasn’t the happy stimming he did while watching a tv show he liked or talking to a friend, it was the only thing keeping him calm enough to not start screaming and bashing his head into the wall like he’d done as a child. it was like if someone tried to keep a half-severed arm attached to their body with butterfly bandages. which was a gross analogy, but whatever.

he kept crying until he’d cried himself out, sometimes scraping his knuckles against the wall over and over, sometimes biting the skin around his nails and on his knuckles. his head hurt, and it spun with dizziness.

jared lifted an arm back up to the post-it note and he peeled the tape up. he took the blade and felt a strange sense of calm drift over him, like this was what he was supposed to do.

he could do it on his thighs, like he’d always done, but that’d be too close to a real relapse. it wasn’t _really_ a relapse if he cut in a different spot, right? that was probably in his dbt book somewhere. he could try his stomach, but he didn’t want to fuck up and discover what his guts looked like or anything. his upper arms would be too hard to reach… which really just left his arms.

jared wasn’t going to cut on his wrists. it was too cliché. people would figure out what he was doing to himself. so he’d cut on his forearm.

he took a breath to steel himself and made the first incision right by his elbow on the side of his arm. he made a second about an inch lower, but then decided that it, 1) wasn’t enough cuts, and 2) the cuts were too far apart. so he cut three more lines between them, noting how his skin split apart. the cuts were only about a centimetre long, and he decided it wasn’t enough, so he cut a row of them down to the middle of his forearm before stopping.

the relief he’d found in cutting suddenly stopped and was replaced with a sense of dread. he’d really done it this time. how was he going to bandage this? explain the scars? tell his therapist?

he sighed and grabbed a tissue from the box he’d shoved in the corner and let it soak up all the blood, of which there wasn’t much, but it was still more than he’d seen in a while and it felt good. really good. better than it should have.

he flicked on the light he’d set up in his pillow dungeon to better see the cuts and winced. there were a lot. he counted out seventeen of them.

seventeen was a lot. he couldn’t pass that off as ‘concrete’s fault’ (concrete was his younger cat, who he loved with his whole heart), and his go-to ‘i fell in the bushes’ probably wouldn’t work with parallel cuts.

he wouldn't get addicted this time, he promised himself. he wasn't going to get addicted again.

*

the next night found him in the exact same situation: bawling his eyes out, hitting himself in the head, and then numbly carving up his skin.

he wasn't going to get addicted.

*

"dude, that's a big-ass bandaid, you okay?" evan asked.

"yeah," jared said. "concrete doesn't enjoy her bath time."

**Author's Note:**

> sorry,
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> pls,.,.,  
> go get like.. water or smth now.,.,.,.,.,.,., take care of urself.,.,.,.,.,,.,.,.,ily


End file.
